


Just a Kiss

by alyjude_sideburns



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: First Time, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-12 18:40:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1195419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyjude_sideburns/pseuds/alyjude_sideburns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim sees a kiss that changes his life. Originally published in January, 2001.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just a Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I just put the guys up on eBay today. Minimum bid: $1,000,000.00 plus I get squatters rights. What a deal.
> 
> Notes: Thanks to Green Woman for being my beta. This story is short and is the result of watching a TS marathon due to a bad case of writer's block. I was up to season four and The Real Deal, was watching that breathtaking kiss that Megan plants on Blair. At the same time, Faith Hill's song, "The Way You Love Me" came on my radio (yes, I watch television, listen to the radio and surf the net all at the same time, don't you?) and the dam broke. Writer's block is so depressing but the cure is just so much damn fun! Of course, for me, writer's block could be a good thing.
> 
> Thanks as always to welp, whose computer was in the hospital but is back, alive and well. Originally published in 2001.

**Just a Kiss by Alyjude**

 

 

We started with a kiss.

Which is ridiculous considering that we've been roommates for three years - and counting. And that in those three years, I've seen him haggard, happy, hostile and horny. I've seen him delirious, dippy, and drunk and I've seen him chipper, cheeky, and charming.

I've seen him first thing in the morning, beard stubbled and cranky, with frizzled hair and a mouth full of cotton. I've also seen him last thing at night, hunched over his laptop, glasses slip-sliding away, fingers curled painfully over the keyboard and his back creaking.

I've seen Blair Sandburg in danger and I've seen Blair Sandburg when he was danger.

I've seen him so exhausted that he needed a wall to hold him up and then so full of energy that he'd give the Energizer bunny a run for its money just before both were asked to pee in a cup.

But in three years - I'd never seen him kiss. Oh, a peck, sure, but never a full blown, lip locked, tongue twisting kiss.

Until today.

How the hell do I describe the sudden plunge into the world of carnal lust that I entered at the moment of that kiss? How do I share the scalding heat that crawled up my legs to pause painfully and briefly at my groin before moving up to warm my face? What excuse do I give for the actions of my body, which, against its will, leaned forward with fingers itching to bury themselves in that hair? Or the blistering heat of need that caused my mouth to open and my tongue to sneak out as if he were kissing me?

Ah, you understand now. He wasn't kissing me; he was kissing her.

But shit, it was just a kiss, right? But hot damn, that kiss was deep, thorough, and so inviting, so totally *there*--- but he was giving it to the wrong fucking person.

Which, by the way, is how I knew.

Three years of death, near death, loss, tragedy, humor, pathos, bad breath, colds, Chunky Monkey, flu, really bad hair days (his), really bad gun days (mine), car crashes (always mine), women (50-50), earaches (mine), broken bones (his), yelling matches that would have been successful on UPN's Smackdown, and dysfunctional lives that would do Jerry Springer proud. Distrust, trust, love, hate, need, compassion, chinese noodles, understandings and misunderstandings, and yet - I see him kiss a woman and that's when I knew?

Folks, put this in the posterity ledger; on Tuesday, January 9, 2001, Jim Ellison saw the runt kiss a woman in a hall and he knew. The fucking rays of dawn and a multitude of light bulbs went on over his head and he knew.

Knew that he fucking loved the creep.

I fucking love the guy.

Someone care to explain this? Anyone? No? Thought not. Who could? Well, Naomi probably could. And Sandburg most certainly could.

"Well, Jim, it's our propinquity combined with your male sexual repression."

Riight.

And bullshit. Or should that be Blairshit?

I've just plain been in love with the guy and he's a jerk and I'm never talking to him again. This is all his fault.

Why couldn't Rollins have hit me? Why did I have to duck? If he'd connected, I'd have ended up at Cascade Memorial and the little shit would have come running and then he'd have never kissed her and I'd never have seen it and I'd be home free. I'd be happily ensconced in Repressedville, joyfully not wanting to kiss those lips black and blue.

But no-o-o, I had to duck, had to take the guy down.

Which left me eager to see my erstwhile partner and share the good news, which consequently left me frozen in the halls of Rainier a couple of hours ago, watching him - kiss her.

They were standing close as I came around the corner and while normally the young woman, a fellow TA named Dianne Scotti, was Blair's height, today, thanks to heels, she towered over him.

They were talking, he was nodding and smiling that Sandburg smile, arms full of test books when suddenly her hands reached out, grabbed his purple polo shirt and before I could identify what he'd had for lunch, she'd hauled him even closer and planted one.

He had to arch his neck (her heels, you know) and I could see the muscles moving and the tongue action and god, the way their heads were tilted...

And Sandburg's hair, the way it brushed against his collar and I could hear the swish of it as it tangled gently with the material, and my fingers wanted to pull...

And because he's slightly elevated by her grip, his shirt rides up and my eyes are drawn to skin, to flesh, to the promise of what could be but my eyes had to go back to the kiss, to his neck, the line of his jaw, strong, square, and I remember my hand seemed to float up, my thumb tracing that perfect, masculine jaw...

To feel the faint stubble, the muscles at work as his tongue delves into my mouth...

The short, compact body pressing into me, the scents of our mingling aftershave, and in our mouths, the soup he'd managed to scarf down for lunch and the beef dip I had, come together and the taste reaches a culinary greatness to be envied by Emeril.

My brain is cursing my feeble body, the fact that I have only two hands, the feeling of inadequacy because one must be captured by hair and that leaves me puzzling over where to put the only other hand I possess.

Do I pull up his shirt and run my hand up his chest? Find love in that hair? Or do I slip that hand down the back of his jeans and explore the roundness I know I will find? Do I tweak an already hard brown nipple? Or pinch soft flesh and revel in the rise of goosebumps and clenching muscles? Or maybe I go for the front of the jeans...

"Yo, Jim! I'm home."

Where's the fucking couch pillow when you need it?

"Duh, Darwin. Like I wouldn't know?" The pillow, I've got it, drop it over my newly enlarged lap as I fumble for the remote and he's dropping his stuff on the table and I need to get the set on, volume down and I have it and press power and seconds later, the volume zips down to zero and I'm free and clear.

"Uh, Jim, you're watching - I mean, that's, like - opera."

"No, doofus, that's Oprah."

Hey, what do you expect? That was the best I could come up with in a pinch, considering that my dick was full of much needed brain blood.

"Such a wit, Ellison."

He's leaning forward, forearms resting on the back of the couch and I can see his reflection in the television screen and he's watching the action and smiling. "You know, Jim, this is a pretty good one - Die Walkure, by Wagner. Stormy nights, revenge, murder, sword, damsel in distress, families murdered... you'll enjoy it."

"Uh, huh." Was that a witty comeback or what? I sparkle like a fine champagne.

"Hang on, I need to put this stuff away, then I'll join you."

He's walking away, still talking.  "Not one of my favorites, mind you, but still a good one. Leave it to you to find one of the more violent operas out there."

"No, Sandburg, I do believe the most violent is perhaps Verdi's Macbeth."  I can't help smiling because I've got him. He's turning around and because I can still see his reflection, I know his head is tilted and he's staring at the back of mine.

"Man, you never cease to amaze me, Ellison." He's grinning.

As he picks up his stuff and heads for his room, I wave my hand in the air, in the general direction of the kitchen, and say innocently, "There's some of Rosemary's raspberry chocolate brownies on the counter. She dropped them off earlier to thank you for fixing her flat tire the other day."

At the magic words "raspberry chocolate brownies" he makes a nice, subtle directional change and carves a path to the brownies. "Yeah," he says, nonchalantly, "I can put this stuff away later, no rush."

Seconds later, he's got one hand around the plate of brownies while reaching up for a glass with the other. I"m leaning forward now, trying to catch him in the television screen and I see his hand freeze. "Damn," he's muttering, "We're out of milk. I drank the last of it this morning."

Smiling smugly, I say, "Bought some. In the fridge."

He's facing me, eyes wide as he says, "You're kidding! Oh man, Jim, you're the best."

He's opening the fridge and removing the new carton but he hasn't let go of the prize so opening the milk is proving a challenge; one that he's apparently up for as he successfully pours. Then to my surprise, he takes another glass down, pours again, puts the milk away and with the brownie plate balanced on the top of one glass in his right hand and the other glass in his left, he makes his way back to the couch.

I pretend that the opera is fascinating as he sits and says, "Brought some milk for you. Help yourself to a brownie."

There are four - He loves me enough to offer me one. The guy is so besotted. I take the milk without removing my eyes from the screen and I watch his reflection place the plate on its knee, then take a bite of one of Rosemary's heavenly confections.

"Ah, gawmd," he mumbles dreamily, "thesm r thm bestmt."

He raises the glass to his lips, my eyes following every move, and he's swallowing - a huge swallow - and he gives that little aaaah sound followed by a broad grin.

"Man, she is good. These are heaven, Jim."

I have to actually look at him then and I'm glad that I do because he's sporting the biggest milk moustache I've ever seen. I grin and fix my eyes pointedly on the ring of white.

"What? What, Jim, what?"

I can't help it. I'm grinning like a fool. I bring my finger up and make a little circular motion around my mouth while nodding at him. His eyes follow my finger but he's shaking his head and frowning in confusion. I start laughing. The corners of his lips rise a bit, but he's still confused. He's happy that I find something to laugh about and he's shrugging his shoulders as if to say, Fine, Ellison, whatever.

I stop laughing. The milk; his lips. The chocolate.

Fuck the soup and beef dip sandwich.

I start listing sideways toward him, then whisper, "got milk, sandburg?"

He backs off a bit, eyes focused on my face and he's still wearing that puzzled frown, the one that says, Ellison's finally cracked a gasket, so I hone in on those lips.

He can't move back any further, he's already wedged into the corner and his eyes are almost crossing as I come impossibly closer, invading space that I've never invaded before. I whisper again, "you're wearing your milk, chief."

Blue eyes widen as comprehension dawns.

"Shit," he hisses out. One hand comes up to wipe the milk from his mouth but I clamp down on the wrist and say, "No, let me."

And that's it. My tongue is out before I can whip and chair it back to obedience. I'm licking him. Rimming his mouth. Me. Jim Ellison.

Take that, Ms. Scotti. No, take that, Mr. Sandburg.

I'm still slowly lapping up the milk like my animal spirit who must be in heaven, because I do believe I'm purring.  There isn't a trace of dairy product left on the outside but I wouldn't being doing my job if I didn't check the inside, would I? I rest my lips over his and wait.

Nothing happens.

I open my eyes and he's staring at me, only he is cross-eyed now and those expressive eyebrows of his are steadily climbing to his hairline. I let my tongue out again - a trial run - and try to nudge those thick, sexy lips apart.

Knock, knock.

Who's there?

Jim Ellison, that's who and let me the fuck in, I wanna play.

And he does.

HE FUCKING DOES.  Sutter, shove it over. I have hit the strike of the millennium. This is it. The bonanza. I'm rich.

I plumb the depths, taste the chocolate, the raspberries, the milk, and Sandburg. I pet his tongue lovingly, stroke it, suck it, pull it into my mouth and give a passing thought to the hope that he isn't still cross-eyed. He'd look funny going through the rest of his life like that, you know?  I'm really into this; until I feel his hands on my chest, pushing me away and I panic.

With great reluctance, I pull back and stare at those surprised, wide, blue eyes. But I have to not look in*to* them, afraid of what I might see, so I look around them. I check out the thick, dark lashes. I notice one lone, gray hair in his right sideburn and a small scratch on his cheekbone and I can't fail to note that his hands are still on my chest, and that he's panting. I go back to gazing at his lips and they're moving; a sure indication that he's talking. I should probably listen.

"you - you...what, this is some - like - milk thing, Ellison?"

What can I say? I smile, like the cat stalking the milk bottle in the refrigerator, and say breathlessly, "Milk's gone, Sandburg."

He brings a finger to his mouth and absently runs it over those lips.

Shit, there is no way in hell that I'm letting myself shoot over that gesture. No fucking way. I rein it in, give a strong mental lecture to Jimmy J. and wait.

He's nodding. "Yeah, yeah, gone, definitely gone -- you asshole."

He's not pushing anymore; more like resting his hands and I can feel the slight rubbing his thumbs are doing.

"would that be a good asshole, or a bad asshole?" I cleverly whisper.

One eyebrow rises challengingly. "Maybe I don't want to find out."

Riight.  Like I'm not a sentinel? And a crack detective too? And didn't he offer me one of Rosemary's brownies? Who does he think he's fooling? Not this guy, no siree. "you do," I whisper, huskily, I hope.

He's grinning and I'm thinking my sexy voice isn't what it used to be. But then he's very serious. Very.

"Yeah, Jim, I do."

That's all Jimmy J. and I need. I move in again and again - he stops me. The prick.

"Just one little question, first."

"First?" I squeak out. "First?" I repeat, astonished.

He wags a finger at me. "Come on, Ellison. Three years? Get real. What's going on?"

Think fast, Ellison. "I'm getting the urge to procreate?"

Hey, it's worth a try, you know?

Blair's eyes just went frosty blue but before I can attempt my patented I take it back, Sandburg which involves a whole lot of groveling, he's picked up my arm and brought my hand down and he's placing it - HOLY SHIT - there.

He's hard and I want it, want him, but damn, he's also talking again. You know, life with him is not going to be easy.

"Does this feel like something that you. a man, could create life by using personally?"

Okay, he'd succeeded in one thing; my eyes have definitely left his mouth. I am currently fixated on the hardness that is my partner's (the milk moustache king) groin.

And he called me the Holy Grail?

I need to say something but for the life of me, I can't remember what it is. My hand is trembling as Blair holds it in place and I can feel the pulse, the heat, the rich moistness and my brain is fast turning to slush.

Question. He. Asked. Me. A. Question.

I can see the little well-dressed brain cells now. They're running amok, arms waving in the air, screaming for help because they can't assist me in my hour of need.

I. Have. To. Answer. The. Question.

"no, no." I manage to formulate a few words, "but - certain - I - can - findauseforit."

"Why?" Dear God. Another. Question.  Brain cells scrambling over one another.

"two healthymenboth.--"

"Why?"

"andyou're so.--"

"Why?"

"andwe'recompatible--"

"Why now?"

Busted.  I have to finally meet his gaze. Frightened, cornered blues meet implacable darker blues and it gushes out of me.  

"Because I saw you kissing Dianne and you should have been kissing me and you shouldn't kiss anyone but me from now on and I was going to do this whole romantic dinner thing, but then you had the milk, and you looked so..." my voice trails off as I realize I was about to say cute and that Blair Sandburg hates the word cute when applied to him, but before I can finish, Blair jumps in, impatient for me to complete my sentence.

"So...?" he says, his head moving forward, urging my words, but I can only stare because I can't find a better word than cute. But he's still impatient and tries to put words in my mouth, his eyebrows waggling suggestively. "So...incredibly handsome and really pretty damn sexy? And you were helpless to resist my manly hunkiness?" he finishes, his expression now daring me to argue.

The corner of my mouth quirks up and I sheepishly say, "Yeah, what you said."

He smiles a bit and cocks his head. "So, you saw Dianne and me kissing today?"

I nod haplessly and shrug helplessly.

"I wasn't kissing her, you know. She was kissing me."

"She do that often, Sandburg?"

"Only every other Thursday. It's an Italian thing."

He's giving me his version of a helpless shrug, but it looks more like his "this game is fun" shrug. Like the ones he gives Simon after twenty minutes of yanking the man's chain. But hell, I'm game. "Do you ever kiss her back?"

"Nah, but I'm very liberal, you know? And politically correct to boot. And let's face it, this short Jewish guy so does not want to be the reason behind the breakdown of US/Italian relations. Bad for the rep."

"So what happens two weeks from today?"

"Oh, well, you see, now I'm taken. No problemo. Italians respect the sanctity of - you know," his finger wiggles back and forth, from his chest to mine, "what we have between us."

"Do we have something between us?" Two can play at this game. And just who started it anyway? Yep, me, that's who.

His eyes crinkle in mirth and damn, something tells me he's already won. "Not if we work this right, we won't. Have anything between us, that is."

Nothing between us. Nothing like, say, clothing. Or words. Or the past. Or mistakes. Just two men plastered together by sweat, cum, arms and legs, skin to skin...

"Uh, Jim? Stop imagining it and god damn it - let's fucking do it already."

Good point and who knew he could be so succinct, so - brief.

"So, how do you want to do this?"

Both his eyebrows arch.

"I'm thinking," he taps his chin, " the normal way, Jim. Just good, old fashioned sex. Hot, horny and," his voice dips then, its cadence rich and full of emotion as he finishes, "full of love."

I give him my softest smile because he's just said it all. Everything I needed to hear. And it's in his face, in the eyes gazing back at me and in the dick I'm still touching. It's almost - staggering. It's coming at me and it's happened before but I've always been so adept at raising the drawbridge, dropping the gates and fortifying the walls that I've always missed it. Deflected it. But this time - this time I'm wide open. And it hits me.

His love hits me where I live, pushes its way into my heart, my soul, and what was just a kiss becomes a life altering experience. No, a life mending experience.

And we are kissing, our mouths are stuck together like Crazy Glue on anything.  We're kissing, sucking, tasting, climbing in and down, and I'm the one going back - and back - and back - until I'm flat and he's on top of me, and it's nothing like I imagined in that hall, nothing. Okay, my hand is tracing that square jaw and I have found out what to do with my other hand as I slide it down the back of his jeans but what I'd not imagined is what his hands would be doing to me.

His hands are like his brain; everywhere at once, non-stop, spilling over my body like his words spill out when he's excited. He doesn't have to bemoan his lack of additional hands, like the rest of us mere mortals, he clearly has more. How else could I feel them on my anxious dick, on my chest, my face, the back of my head, caressing my neck, flowing down my arms, then skimming over my hips and down my legs?

How can I be feeling fingers tracing the shape of my mouth while at the same time, fingers are wrapped securely, yet gently, around my dick and massaging my scalp? And there are fingers massaging my scalp and they most certainly are not mine.

He's making love to me. He's making love to me. And all I can do is let it happen. And we're naked. How did that happen? And why don't I remember it? Again, it's not how I imagined - but it is sooo much better.

Lord, he's inching his way backwards, raining small, light kisses on my skin, pausing at my abdomen and I clench as his tongue licks over the sensitive flesh and damn, I just moaned. He glances up, and he's smirking, a charming smirk, but a smirk nonetheless. He's never looked - hotter or sexier. Then he lowers his head and his hair, oh god, his hair is trailing over my skin and down, down and I sigh as dick and balls are treated to the delicious sensation of Blairhair.

I've come to a conclusion; my dick is a sentinel too. It's reacting on its own, jumping to attention, begging for more hair, more Blair, more everything including more _mouth_.

I nearly jump and tip us both over when that mouth finally does close around me and it's all I can do to keep from screaming. Blair's head is bobbing up and down, his tongue, teeth and hands working their magic and I'm thanking god he's short and I'm really thanking god that he's experienced. And does he even have a clue what he's doing to me? How he's affecting me? How he's sending me places no one has ever sent me before? 

What's that song by Faith Hill?

Does he know how much I love the way he's loving me right now?

But you know, I find that even in the throes of this wild passion, I can't wait to show him my stuff.

 

 

I'm not gonna say my eyes rolled back in my head or anything, and the world didn't move and there were no bells, whistles or the sound of a crashing sea, although my yell might have sounded something like that and yeah, I'm lying through my teeth.

My eyes did roll back in my head and damn, the fucking couch is now sixteen inches away from its original position. (Don't ask, just trust me on this.) And damn, I know I heard something but it may have just been my blood rushing to my dick but I think he gave me a nosebleed too. And by the looks of us both, the White Sea of Sperm hit high tide.

Shit, I'm tired. Blown away, exhausted, couldn't lift a finger if the loft were on fire. And what's he doing? Lying on top of me, making satisfying little sounds and fiddling with my dead dick, that's what.

"guess you liked that, eh, Jim?" He mumbles into my chest.

"uh, huh."

All my well-dressed brain cells are taking a cigarette break. In fact, that may be what I heard right after I came - *smoke 'em if you've got 'em, guys!*

"Not bad for the first time, eh?"

Huh? What did he just say?

"Huh? What did you just say?"

He lifts his head and smiles up at me. "I said, not bad for the first time, eh, Jim?"

Oh, I get it. Our first time. I relax and drop my head back down. "Not bad at all, Sandburg."

"Good. Was a little worried there, I mean, I've certainly had women go down on me, but I've never exactly..."

ohgod. ohgodohgodohgod.

I lift my head again, blink a few times and ask, like a complete idiot, "You mean you've never... you've never been with a guy?"

His eyes widen and he's never looked more innocent, more _vulnerable_ , than he does at this moment.

"Well, no, not really. I've wondered, even dated a couple of times, but nothing - I mean, I didn't let anything come of it, you know?"

"Uh, huh." My mind is reeling and my mouth has gone dry. Blair Sandburg - a virgin.

Just. Not. Possible.

He tweaks my right nipple - _hard_ \- and that devilish smirk is back. Then he raises up a bit and brings his mouth close to mine to whisper happily, "gotcha."

"You dick."

He nods smugly. "Yep, that's me. And speaking of dicks, mine could use a little attention about now, Oh, Great Sentinel."

Oh, yeah, my turn. Oh yeah. "Bed or couch, Sandburg?" Am I romantic or what?

"Bed, Ellison. Yours, not mine."

"Right, bed it is. Race you?"

I start up but Blair places a firm hand back on my chest and pushes. "I think you should conserve your strength, Jim. We should walk up the stairs sedately, lie down, let your breathing calm a bit and then you take care of my little problem, okay?"

"Conserve my strength, Sandburg? Conserve my _strength_?"

"Well, I'm pretty demanding, Jim. I doubt that you can keep up with me, you know?"

He is going to pay for that - right now. I'm up so fast he flops over like a dead mackerel and before he can form the word, what?, I have him slung over my shoulder and I'm heading upstairs, his handsome rear end bouncing enticingly next to my cheek. I can't help it; I turn my head and I bite him. A small bite, a nip really, but he jerks up and starts yelling obscenities around his laughter, then gives my back a punch. What could I do? I bite him again.

I dump him on the bed and jump. He rolls over and I land on my blanket.

He's laughing and up and for a minute I can't believe this is us. He's dodging me, I'm up and after him, we're both naked as jaybirds and this is _Blair_.

My roommate, Blair Sandburg. The guy that left moldy sprouts under the couch, meditates at one thirty in the morning, leaves gobs of hair in the drain, spends thirty minutes in the shower, has a story for every possible event in our lives and can drive Simon to drink. This is the guy that I can't live without, and he's now naked in my bedroom. And we're playing hide the salami.

Correction. We _were_ playing hide the salami. I've found it, thanks to a quick Ranger move that brought my roommate down. He never knew what hit him.

He's looking up at me now, from beneath my body and he's smiling and doesn't look the least upset that I've won.

I brush my lips against his sweaty temple and whisper, "who needs to conserve energy, chief?"

His eyes flutter close as he says quietly, "you win, jim and look what you win, you poor sap."

I grin against his skin and start loving him within an inch of his life - and mine.

Just as he covered every inch of my body, I begin to cover his - with my hands, my lips and my tongue. He's trying so hard to hold still for me, but his energy is there, just under the surface and I can feel it in every shiver, every trembling muscle, every twitch of a limb. He's biting back moans and words that would beg me to hurry and who knew he had this kind of will power? And in spite of the fact that I'm making love to him, he's the one who's letting it happen at my speed, he's the one holding back.

Suddenly, I want this to be our first time in everything.

I move back up to his lips and rest mine against his, which are trembling. Then I speak.

"want you in every way."

His breath catches but he recovers and nods, then asks, "do you have..."

My hand is already reaching for the drawer and I'm pulling out the needed items. His eyes actually start to glow and as he watches me bring the tube and the packages of condoms to our side, he's saying over and over again, "yes, yes, yes, yes..."

We're opening, tearing, rolling, and as I pick up the tube, I pause and smile.

"you're not - "

He laughs and doesn't need me to finish.

"no, you idiot." Then his face softens and his eyes connect with mine as he says, "but jim, i wish i were - for you."

I swear my heart just stopped beating. No one has ever said anything that ---

"I love you, Blair Sandburg and this is our first time."

He's grinning and nodding now. "Yeah, it is, so get to it, Ellison."

I laugh and I do. Get to it. We get to it. We start making love to each other as I tease him, as his legs come up and I move in, as he strokes my face and murmurs nonsensical words and as I finally penetrate him, slowly, and he meets me, and we're co-joined and panting and sweating and it's like I'm dying because our entire life together, the last three years, flashes in front of my eyes and none of it matters because it was all leading to this one moment.

But then his heels dig in and I move and it's sex and love and sex and it's life and Blair Sandburg and Jim Ellison and the universe and as I move in hard, I pity the rest of the world.

They don't have him.

I do.

 

 

I turn my head and see his face. I turn my body and meet his. This is what it's like waking up with Blair Sandburg beside me.

The room is full of a gray light, the precursor to the predicted storm and I note that it's after nine in the morning. Saturday morning. All day with this man. I have all day and all tomorrow with this man. I carefully slide to the edge of the bed, suddenly wanting nothing more than to fix him breakfast. As I stand and reach for my robe, I stop and turn again, to look back at him.

He's been beside me for three years. Three years, but now - now he's really beside me. And I'm beside him. I grin and as I head downstairs I have to chuckle because if Carolyn ever found out that I got up on a Saturday to make breakfast for my lover, she'd kill me.

Lover. I have a lover. Is that what he is? A lover? No, that doesn't sound right somehow. Lover implies short term, non-permanent. Or cheating. So what is he?

As I ponder this deep, philosophical question, I set the table, then take out the necessary makings for pancakes, including the electric griddle, and start in.  I measure and mix, remembering to use Blair's tip of putting the wet ingredients on top of the dry and then mixing only ten times, and as I work for him, I ask myself again, what is Blair Sandburg if not my lover?

My - significant other? My - spouse? I put the butter on the hot griddle, then wipe it down and off, another Sandburg trick for perfect pancakes, and decide that Blair is - Chief to me.

He's the head honcho in this household. I may be the alpha male, but he's the chief. It's that simple. And that complicated.

He is everything. The Alpha and the Omega.

He is Jim Ellison and Jim Ellison is him. We are one. There is no separating us, no delineation between where I start and he stops. There was none last night when I was buried in him and there was none less than an hour ago when he was buried in me.

I have my answer.

He's stirring upstairs, I just heard him stretch and yawn and he's sniffing. I pour the first eight pancakes and his feet hit the floor. I can hear the scramble for something to wear so I yell up, "Try one of my tee shirts and in the second drawer from the bottom you'll find the blue sweats that you shrunk."

I don't have to see the smile to know that he is smiling. I hear the drawer open and close and a few moments later he's jogging downstairs as he pulls the tee shirt over his head and adjusts it.

He looks messy in the morning. A wonderful messy. Rumpled, tousled, bearded and happy. He's squinting because his contacts are in his bedroom and his glasses are on the coffee table where we left them last night. I point to them and say, "Five paces to your left, then bend down."

He grins and says, "Ooh, I love it when you talk dirty, Jim."

"Glasses, stupid." But I'm grinning right back at him as I flip the now golden brown pancakes.

He finds his glasses, slips them on and joins me in the kitchen. He sidles up behind me and wraps his arms around my middle. "What got into you this morning, Jim?"

"Besides you?"

He snorts against my robe. "Yeah, besides that."

"Just felt like cooking."

"Well, lucky me!"

"Make yourself useful and pour the juice and coffee, okay?"

He kisses my back and turns, but I catch his chuckling mutterings about having been quite useful earlier this morning.

He takes the glasses of orange juice, sets them down next to our plates, then comes back for the coffee. As he sets down the mugs, he takes his seat and watches me flip the pancakes onto the platter, then set them in the oven to keep them warm. He's surprised when I crack four eggs onto the hot griddle. "Pancake sandwiches, Jim?"

"Got a problem, Sandburg?"

We both know that's his favorite breakfast in the world and that he rarely has it. "Well, I'll be damned, I do believe you love me, Jim."

"Ya think, Sandburg?"

"I think that it would not be a bad thing to send Dianne Scotti a dozen red roses today. That's what I think."

I flip the eggs over easy and add, "Two dozen, Sandburg. Two dozen. And a teddy bear."

"Right. It shall be done."

He watches me as I pull out the pancakes and gently flip the eggs onto the same platter, then move to the table and take my seat after setting the plate down in front of him.

We both dig in by forking over pancakes and eggs and I observe him as he immediately breaks open the soft yolk and lets the yellow, runny mess spill over the mound of flapjacks. Then, like a kid on Christmas morning, he grabs the boysenberry syrup (don't ask) and pours it over the whole mess. He licks his fingers, which are purple now, and I watch as each digit enters, then exits his mouth and I groan. His head jerks up. He sees my expression and quickly dips a finger in the syrupy, eggy goop, runs it around the plate, then languidly pops it into his mouth and sucks on it as he murmers, "ummm."

The little shit.

I frown at him, sternly I hope, and say, "Unless you want to be flat on your back in that mess, with your legs wrapped around my waist, Sandburg, you'd better start eating and stop fooling around."

"If you think for one minute that I believe you're able to do more than make threats after our earlier _exercise_ , than you're crazy." He promptly puts a finger back into his mouth.

I shake my head at the stupidity of the man. You just don't mess with Jim Ellison. "You are the only person for whom I could be able for, Blair."

That stops him. The finger is pulled out and he's staring at me, eyes wider than the plate holding his pancake sandwich. For a minute he just stares, then the air escapes from his mouth like a blown tire. "How is it that you're the only person who can make my first name sound like an endearment, and a nickname like Chief sound like my first name?"

Smiling, I shrug, then say, "So, you wanna fool around, Blair?"

He points his fork at me. "There, see? It was like you just said, "You wanna fool around, honey?"

"Well, do you, Blair?"

He looks down at his favorite breakfast, then up at me, then down , then up...

"Um, wait, wait - one second...," and he quickly forks one, then two, then three forkfuls of pancakes and eggs into his mouth, chews, his eyes roll back into his head as he moans, then he finally swallows, pushes the plate away, gulps down a mouthful of juice, wipes his mouth, tosses the napkin down and before I can blink, he's running for the stairs, tossing the tee shirt over his shoulders and yelling, "WELL?"

Yes, well. Guess no breakfast for me. And did I just tie with Sandburg's favorite breakfast? I think I did. Sort of.

On the other hand, all I have to do is kiss the hell out of him and I'll get my breakfast and Sandburg too. Grinning, I follow my - man - upstairs. But I do take it slower.  I really have to conserve my strength, you know.

~End Just a Kiss~


End file.
